He sighed. “My father disapproves of me. Thinks I’ll harm her chances for a husband.”
“You?” she sputtered with such force that crumbs flew out of her mouth. “The Lord Lieutenant!”
He tried to keep any bitterness out of his voice, for it would not do to dishonor his father, whatever their disagreements. “He did not approve of my leaving the Church to scribble on Fleet Street and rave in the streets, as he put it.”
His father had been furious that Henry had turned down a position as a vicar in their shire—a position his father had strategized and traded favors in order to secure for him—in favor of leaving his curacy to join with a loose circuit of Methodists, and support himself by writing. He’d demanded Henry reconsider.
But faith was not a consideration. It simply was. His allegiance to the principles of Methodism had made him whole. His heart craved a closer communion with God than the Church of England offered.
“Well,” Alice said, chewing, “he must be eating crow now that you’ve risen so nicely.”
Henry doubted it. He’d dearly hoped that securing the position as Lord Lieutenant—a higher honor than a vicar, much more like the high church bishop his father had always hoped he might eventually become—would make the man finally see that his refusal to take orders was not a rebellion. But two years had passed with no more than occasional letters from his mother. He’d spent his holidays with cousins, or with friends. He’d been shocked to receive an invitation home to attend his nephew’s christening.
“He certainly prefers it to my previous occupation,” he allowed, hoping that much was true.
Alice chortled. “Don’t we all.”
He sighed. He would be the first to admit that his time at Saints & Satyrs had not been his finest moment. He’d begun his role with grand ambitions to meld his faith with his mission to bring morality to London’s streets—to expose sin, hypocrisy, abuse. But the more his circulation rose, the more his publishers wished for wild stories to drive it ever higher, and the more his ethics became subject to negotiation. He’d become apuff with his own vanity. He’d lost his way.
He’d welcomed the work for the Lords as a chance to return to work of moral value.
But with it had come the new temptations.
Bodily ones.
None of which he cared to share with Alice Hull.
Alice chewed meditatively, having progressed from cake to ham. “Well, then, if he’s not fond of you, why are you visiting?”
“He’s hosting a small party to mark the birth of his first grandchild. My brother’s son. I believe that is the reason for the invitation. Since it coincided with the conclusion of my investigation, I decided to take time in the country to write my report. Spend time with my family.”
He hated this gulf between them, especially now that it was coming time to have a family of his own. He’d done everything he could think of to ensure that this trip went well. He’d borrowed the elegant curricle from Lord Apthorp so that he would not anger his father, who was sensitive to appearances being from low origins, by arriving in a badly sprung rented chaise or, worse yet, on the mail coach. He’d sent ahead his mother’s favorite tea from London, his brother’s favorite tobacco, his sister’s favorite chocolates.
He said a silent prayer that this visit would go well. Dear Lord, please bless us with a warm connection and better understanding, so that love and harmony may flourish in our hearts at last. Grant me the strength to honor my father. Grant me his forgiveness.
“Pardon?” Alice asked around a mouthful of cold meat. She’d taken off her gloves to eat and he noticed her hands were turning blue. It was considerably colder on the wooded road, especially in the rain.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your lips were moving.”
“I was praying.”
She wrinkled her nose and returned her attention to her luncheon.
“Would you like me to say one for your mother?” He suspected he knew the answer, but he felt compelled to try again.
“No, thank you,” she said around a bite of ham.
“Very well.” He’d say one for himself. Please Lord, let me get your child Alice to Fleetwend in time to say goodbye—
“She’d be quite proud of me, conning passage home from the likes of you,” Alice said, interrupting his thoughts. “She’s always after me to cozen to the quality.”
“You hardly conned me. And I’m hardly the quality.”
“Oh, you’re quality as far as Margaret Hull’s concerned, Lord Lieutenant.” Each breath sent out puffs of steam into the air, which gave the playful tone she’d taken a somewhat puckish, elfin quality that made him want to stare at her.
“What’s your mother like?” he asked.
She shivered violently, and he wondered if it was the chill or if he’d erred in asking her to speak of the woman she was worried about. “Oh … a proud character. Right about every subject she’s ever had the pleasure of announcing her opinion on. Tough as a piece of sterling. Hair just as silver, though she’d beat my knuckles with a spoon for mentioning it.”
She laughed softly. Sadly. “She disapproves of me. Thinks I disport myself too freely with the boys and poison my sisters’ minds with my coarse tongue and strange ideas.”
He felt foolish for thinking he had nothing in common with Alice Hull. For he knew exactly the combination of affection and pain in her voice.
“It’s difficult,” he said.
“What is?” she asked, shivering again.
“How much one loves one’s parents, even when one is at odds with them.”
Alice said nothing, making him feel a bit foolish for speaking so freely.
The roads had become muddy, and the horses moved more slowly, kicking up muck in their wake. Alice breathed in through her nose, and he felt her tremble beside him.
“Alice, are you well?” he asked softly.
“I’m fine,” she said, through chattering teeth. But she did not look fine. He could see her shaking as she stiffly jammed her fingers back into her gloves.
“You’re cold. You’re shivering. I’m worried you’ll take ill.”
“The trouble is not my health,” she snapped, glaring at him. “It is the fact that my mother is dying, and I am four counties away.”
He chewed at the inside of his cheek.
She sighed deeply. “I’m sorry. I’ll be just fine.”
But he slowed the horses so that he could meet her gaze directly.
“Really,” she protested. “Please drive on.”
“I’m so sorry, Alice,” he said. “I’m so sorry you must endure this.”
She grit her teeth and looked away from him. “It’s no fault of yours, unless you have the power to stop country women’s hearts.”
He sucked in his breath. “I regret I lack the power to fix the weather or your mother’s health. I meant it’s your suffering I’m sorry for.”
“Then please stop adding to it and understand I don’t wish to bloody talk.”
Chapter 6
Henry did not reprimand her sharp tongue or offer to pray for her withered spirit.